


Yours, Mine, Ours

by Yeomanrand



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, M/M, POV Male Character, POV Third Person, Pre-Slash, Present Tense, The Great Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-03
Updated: 2011-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:11:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeomanrand/pseuds/Yeomanrand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12432.html?thread=63327632#t63327632">Sherlock Holmes is John Watson's most prized possession.</a> My first foray into the Sherlock BBC fandom.</p><p>Teaser: <i>The trust issues, those went to the desert with him, and came home perhaps a bit more unsettled but still his own.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Yours, Mine, Ours

John Watson has never been much concerned with material possessions, a fact that has ultimately served him well. Certainly there was precious little he took with him to Afghanistan, and of those things all that returned with him was a change of civilian togs and a pair of woolen socks by whose odd shape he could only assume Harry'd knit for him in a drunken fit. His military tags, still and always resting against his sternum beneath his worn-in jumper. After he returned to Britain, settled in London, he added only a few things to his pack; a stack of books, a portable computer, and the phone Harry'd insisted he take; another few changes of clothes. Pyjamas and a dressing gown. An anorak. A cane.

A psychiatrist, though he never counts her as his.

A limp, an ache in his shoulder. Nightmares, a tremor in his hand.

The trust issues, those went to the desert with him, and came home perhaps a bit more unsettled but still his own.

He thinks Sherlock might have been a bit surprised how easy it was to move him into the flat; one case and a quick trip round to the shopping centre for sheets. Hard to judge, so early on and without knowing all of Sherlock's quirks, but he'd caught a small downward twist in Sherlock's lips.

As far as John's concerned, though, it's quite alright. Sherlock has enough possessions for the both of them, a riot of color and oddity in the front room alone. John wonders if Mycroft -- with irony aforethought -- gave Sherlock the cross-stitched Union Jack pillow; he carefully doesn't wonder if the skull really did once belong to a friend of Sherlock's.

 _You're not his friend. He doesn't have friends._

 _Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio..._

John might not be a genius, but he can still sort out the facts for himself. It doesn't take much to realize for all his cleverness Sherlock is still lost in the world, looking for someone both to acknowledge his brilliance and to take him down a peg when he needs it. _High-functioning sociopath_ , he tells Anderson with the snap of ice in his voice, but John files the statement away as partially incongruous with Sherlock's behavior.

Poorly socialized, he thinks, later, after watching Sherlock shoot the wall before sulking on the couch. Easily bored, and unable to satisfactorally self-entertain. Though -- mistake or not -- listening to him rant at crap telly is more entertaining than John cares to admit. He doubts Sherlock would be pleased by the observation.

John knows better than to trust Sherlock telling him he'll get the milk. And beans. He tries to believe, knowing he's setting himself up for disappointment. When it comes down to it the already-broken promise ends up not mattering one whit. Sherlock still operates on his own, cutting John out for whatever reasons hide behind his pale eyes.

In the end, John wishes for Sherlock's ability to delete the smell of the Semtex hanging from his shoulders, the glaring red dot on Sherlock's forehead. He sees Sherlock's look, gives the slightest nod. Feels the reassuring weight of the tags around his neck; knows at least one of their bodies will be identified. Eyeballs the pool, gauging the distance, waits to see his Sherlock squeeze the trigger.

Muscles tensed, ready to protect the only thing he has worth dying for.

**Author's Note:**

> This piece has not been betaed. I do welcome concrit.


End file.
